


The War and the Bloody Changes

by greenapricot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fairy Tale Retellings, Hansel and Gretel Elements, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-03
Updated: 2004-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was purely by accident that the two sons of Death Eaters, each voted "Least Likely To Follow In Parent’s Footsteps" found themselves standing in front of Voldemort’s stronghold. The two of them had left England after the first mass killing of Muggles. Left. Not fled. If either of them were going to have blood on their hands it would be blood of their choosing. Not Lucius’ and not Voldemort’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War and the Bloody Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2003. Takes place in an amorphous time around 6th or 7th year but written before HBP, a time before Louis Cordice was cast as Blaise when my headcanon Blaise was played by a young Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Very loosely based on Hansel and Gretel. Title from Joni Mitchell.

It was purely by accident that the two sons of Death Eaters, each voted "Least Likely To Follow In Parent’s Footsteps" found themselves standing in front of Voldemort’s stronghold. The two of them had left England after the first mass killing of Muggles. Left. Not fled. If either of them were going to have blood on their hands it would be blood of _their_ choosing. Not Lucius’ and not Voldemort’s.

Blaise’s initial plan had been that they would find somewhere they liked (he had, at that point, been under the impression that there was such a place somewhere in Europe) and lie low until Voldemort either triumphed or was defeated: it would be much easier to decide where and with whom they would reside in England permanently once all this messy war business was sorted out. As it stood, though, Draco seemed to be incapable of not drawing attention to himself. True, the silver-blonde hair would have made it a bit difficult for them to blend in in any case, but Draco’s penchant for hexing Muggles for doing such things as walking too slowly and sitting in cafes and talking meant that they had to move on every two weeks or so. That being Draco’s limit for staying in one place without hexing anyone.

Moving east across the continent seemed the best course of action, as it was predominantly American Muggles who received the brunt of Draco’s attacks. The further east they went, the further from America they were and, therefore, fewer Americans. It had been a good theory, and it had worked. To a point. There had been far fewer Americans in Prague but Draco remained, as ever, the spoiled rich kid. Why they were even travelling together at this point Blaise wasn’t sure. It was habit he supposed. For both of them. As much as Draco was an obnoxious git half the time, he was someone to talk to and Blaise had always taken a certain pleasure in arguing.

Following the incident with the proprietor of a cafe in Prague, who as it turned out was a witch, and Draco’s skin-of-his-teeth escape; barely missing being hexed himself, a few days travel through the forest without further human contact seemed an excellent idea. Draco had staunchly refused to enter the forest up to the moment Blaise disappeared into the trees and then had followed him anyway. 

The branches above were so thick that the light hardly changed when the sky clouded over. The trees kept out most of the rain but the mist was thick and heavy, droplets of stinging cold wormed their way down the necks of robes and under shirts. Even the most powerful of warming spells couldn’t shake the chill. The further they moved through the trees the more the clouds closed in around them. At first the clouds just lurked about the tops of the trees. Then the mist descended through the trunks, swirls of grey and things that weren’t there, until fog shrouded Blaise and Draco like a cloak, but with the opposite effect; instead of warming them it chilled them further, leaving them vulnerable and not able to see more that ten feet in front of their faces. It was an invisibility cloak that made everything invisible to them; the world was reduced to shape and shadow, as if through a gauzy veil. There could have been a cliff face and certain death lurking just ten feet to the left but they would never have know. They barely spoke, and when they did the fog seemed to swallow up the sound the moment it left their lips. They had to walk shoulder to shoulder just to hear each other.

The castle appeared out of the mist. One minute there had been a seemingly impenetrable wall of dark grey and light grey, tree trunks and fog, and the next, intricately carved mahogany doors with designs of entwined serpents, their inlaid emerald eyes winking with an unseen light. Surely this was some illusion of the mist. Blaise placed his hand on the door to touch the carvings and it swung in without a sound. 

The room they entered could have been the Slytherin common room if the Slytherin common room had been built for kings instead of students. A fire glowed warm and inviting from the grate the light it cast somehow more silver than gold. Two deep green velvet couches, piled with pillows of the same green edged in silver piping, sat at right angles to the fire. They were the sort of couches that no matter how you sat on them you would always be comfortable. Between the couches sat a low table of polished black marble, on it a vase of orchids which Draco recognized as his mother’s favorite, the most difficult to cultivate and the most expensive: this was obviously a room meant for him. 

The shelves on either side of the fireplace were overflowing with leather bound books, Muggle and wizard authors alike. Blaise chose a copy of _Hamlet_ that looked as though it could have been printed when Shakespeare himself was still alive and settled in on the right hand couch. It was good to be out of the rain, and he wasn’t going to think about the implications of stumbling across just exactly what he wanted in the middle of a forest. Besides, these couches were far nicer than the one in their flat in Amsterdam (the longest and most uneventful stop on their ill fated journey) and Draco wasn’t complaining. 

Looking up from his book Blaise regarded Draco, lying on the opposite couch, idly twirling his wand, "I could do with a bite to eat." 

"Mmm," said Draco "I wouldn’t say no to another bottle of that Chateau Petrus we had back in Amsterdam." It had been the last, and the best, of the wine they had appropriated from Malfoy Manor three months previously.

When Blaise glanced back at the table there was a plate of finest brie surrounded by an array of crackers in front of him, a bottle of 1983 Chateau Petrus Pomerol and two crystal glasses lurking behind the orchid vase.

"The house elves are efficient," said Draco as he poured himself a glass.

The bottle never emptied, maintaining a level of at least two glasses worth at all times. Just the though of pheasant or pomegranates or filet minion, brought it to the table. The food didn’t appear to arrive via house elves either. Blaise was intrigued. This was a charm he will most definitely have to learn at some point. But he was too pleasantly drunk to care much at the moment, and Draco, who was nearer the fire, had removed his shirt. Draco’s skin shone like alabaster in the flickering light and Blaise saw no reason to resist the urge to test if silver firelight lent skin a different flavor from that of the usual gold.

He approached Draco cat-quiet, gazing down through hooded eyes, before leaning in toward that tantalizing skin. A delicious moan escaped Draco's lips, tightly pressed together, as Blaise ran his tongue over Draco’s nipple. Draco’s eyes closed in resignation? Pleasure? His hand circling Blaise’s upper arm in finger spaced bruises said "more", even though the look on his face remained firmly impassive. Draco’s skin tasted the same as it always had, like almost nothing, but most _definitely_ something; clear cold water on a stifling hot day, bright and thirst quenching and very nearly impossible to refuse. Blaise’s tongue left trails of tingling warmth in its wake as he worked his way down Draco’s chest. And stopped. Just long enough for Draco to grab both his arms and pull Blaise on top of him and into a fierce kiss, tongue and teeth and scowlingmoan. The force of the kiss left Blaise gasping for breath and wondering why exactly he still had his shirt on. 

When skin met skin, chest to chest, it was too hot and almost too much and _/how did it get to be so hot when it had been ice moments before/_. Draco’s hand fumbled at Blaise’s jeans and suddenly _he_ was the one at a disadvantage despite Draco being pinned beneath him. The gasp and air rushing from his lungs at heat and hand on cock pulled him forward and down, and he found the soft flesh of neck beneath his lips and teeth, and he bit down, _hard_ , and toohard, and tasted copper and salt and wet. Draco’s moan in his ear was fine dark chocolate, smooth and slightly bitter but, oh, so sweet. Then lips at his own neck and the exquisite pain of teeth piercing flesh as he scrambled out of his jeans.

Draco was on him and around him and possibly he would just let this one go, with that tongue rolling over and around and _/ohgodyes/_. But no. This would be far more enjoyable with the air heavy with someone else’s screams. And he returned the favor, his tongue caressing the length of Draco’s cock, leaving him rigid and writhing as he came with a guttural moan that echoed even in the heavily tapestried room, hands fisting green velvet, and black hair, and nails drawing crimson streaks on Blaise’s shoulders. It took only the brush of Draco’s cock, still twitching, against his own to pull Blaise over the edge and collapsing onto Draco. Lips met teeth, and lips, in a kiss, all consuming and brutal and sucking the air from each other’s lungs and he was gasping back into the velvet and the oblivion of contently exhausted sleep. 

 

The next day didn’t dawn so much as shift to a slightly lighter shade of grey. Blaise awoke to Draco’s hair tickling his nose and, upon extricating himself from the arm flung across his chest, realized that the couch was far too narrow for them to have been lying next to each other. And yet, he _had_ been lying next to Draco. 

Blaise didn’t see a need to leave the cozy room despite the fact that there didn’t seem to be another soul about the place. Less people meant less opportunity for Draco to get himself in trouble. And, even though it probably was not a good idea to laze around the parlor of an unknown host, neither of them was eager to venture back out into the unrelenting bone chilling drizzle. 

Toward midday Draco, bored and refusing to read any of the hundreds of books available, poked around the two sets of double doors on either side of the fireplace only to discover that no matter which spells he threw at them they refused to open. He then tried the door they had entered, with the same result. Draco found Blaise’s lack of concern over being locked in far more infuriating than being locked in itself. That, and that Blaise had refused to entertain him.

 

Blaise decided that he was going to ignore Draco’s insistent pacing as he was surely doing it just to annoy him. But after forty five minutes he could take no more of the sight of Draco with his hands behind his back, face set in a scowling concentration like a badly written storybook villain, as he walked the exact same path back and forth, back and forth, across the room.

"Oh, give it a rest will you? You’re going to wear a hole in the rug."

"We never should have left Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam was bloody boring and you know it. How many more days could you really have taken of babbling American hippies who think they’re Merlin’s gift because they know three words of Dutch?" Draco smirked. Blaise shot him a black look and continued, "I mean _without_ torturing them." 

Draco gave Blaise a look that said "you know you’re right and I know you’re right but this is all the acknowledgement that you’re going to get", and crossed his arms petulantly. "You know I don’t like not being able to go out even if I never had any intention of doing so in the first place. I like to keep my options open."

Blaise snorted. "You do that then," and went back to his book. Draco plopped himself down on the couch next to Blaise with enough force to jostle him and fixed him with a glare that was dutifully ignored.

 

When Voldemort appeared that evening Blaise couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It had, of course, all been far too good to be true; the room, the food, the wine, the ridiculously comfortable couches. He should have known. And really, somewhere in the back of his mind he _had_ known. He’d just been enjoying the luxury he hadn’t had since leaving England; he knew the war would catch up with them eventually. As sons of Death Eaters there was no real escaping it. Just putting it off for a while.

Upon seeing Voldemort, Draco griped Blaise’s shoulder so hard it left bruises. Whether out of fear, astonishment, or an attempt to get Blaise to stop laughing, Blaise didn’t get to find out as he was hit with _stupefy_ mid-laugh. Apparently the Dark Lord didn’t take too well to being laughed at by eighteen year old boys.

 

Waking from a stunning spell is not unlike the worst hangover ever, plus being trampled by a herd of Thestrals. Blaise groaned and rolled over. The couch seemed to have lost its eternal comfort, it was cold and hard, rather like metal. His foot hit something as he tried to stretch and he opened his eyes; black lines obscured his view of a dimly lit room he hadn’t seen before. _/Black lines? Bars? Wait/_. He sat up too quickly, which had the dual effect of making him even more nauseous and banging his head hard against the roof of the cage he was locked in. 

A door on the far side of the room opened and Voldemort entered, gliding more than walking into the room. Blaise wondered how he managed to get his cloak to move around him like that when there wasn’t a breeze and he was moving very slowly. Blaise bared his teeth at him through the bars.

"Ah, yes, the Dark Lord," the title, on Blaise’s lips, was more insult than tribute. Draco, who had entered behind Voldemort and was now standing to his left next to a contraption that looked suspiciously like an oven, looked silently amused.

Voldemort turned his red snake eyes on Blaise. "You shall serve me well. Those that are most willful always make for the most fortifying of meals."

Blaise did his best to ignore Voldemort’s florid descriptions of how he would make a lovely main course for the next week’s gathering of Death Eaters and instead watched Draco. When Voldemort left, with a sweep of robes that was, frankly, a bit like a twirl, telling Draco to "stay and mind the prisoner." Draco’s expression turned from amusement to malice as he stepped closer to the cage.

Blaise fixed him with the look that up to this point had always managed to make Draco feel at least slightly uneasy and at most like he was in danger of being ripped to shreds by a wild animal. Not this time, however. Blaise was locked in a cage and looks, even those as full of venom as the one that was currently boring into Draco’s skull, could not actually kill. 

"So this is how it is. Is it?" Blaise growled, the last two words not so much speech as hiss. Draco shrugged and took a step closer to the cage running his fingers along the bars, teasing.

"You see, I had intended to let you out but you look so deliciously furious locked in there that I’ve reconsidered. The dinner is not until next week - I think I’ll let you stew in there for a few days. It might do you some good."

Blaise had underestimated Draco it seemed.

Fingers extended and hand held sideways Blaise snaked his arm through the bars. He grabbed Draco by the shirt and pulled him hard against iron. The bars, barely more than two inches apart, cut painfully into his wrist as he rotated his arm and Draco’s face turned two shades whiter than usual as blood mixed with rust in macabre abstract on his shirt. 

"You do realize, of course," Blaise hissed, "that the longer you leave me in here the more I will want to kill you by the time I get out." 

"Point," said Draco as best he could with his face pressed against the bars. "I’ll have you out by tomorrow." Blaise allowed Draco to squirm out of his grasp.

 

Voldemort completely swallowed Draco’s story of how they had come to be at his castle. That, no, of course he hadn’t been trying to run away, he’d just led Blaise to believe that so that he, Draco, could deliver the traitor into Voldemort’s hands. It also seemed to have escaped Voldemort’s notice when Draco retrieved both his and Blaise’s wands from the top drawer of his desk after the Dark Lord had retreated to his bed chamber with Nagani. Draco wondered how someone so supposedly powerful could be so easily fooled.

 

The small (meaning three people) "practice" dinner held the next evening was nothing but left-over, and most likely not very good the _first_ time around, shepherd’s pie. Blaise was let out of his cage for the event. Given the quality of the food served he would have just as soon stayed locked up but it was nice to be able to sit up straight. And, as it was, he didn’t intend to go back. 

Halfway through Voldemort raised his glass. "A toast. To my newest pledge," he nodded in Draco’s direction and gave him what would have been a smile, had he had lips. "And the traitorous rat he has brought for my pleasure." He looked toward Blaise. Blaise thought traitorous rat was a little strong, but then again, the man, if you could even call him that, was insane. Voldemort downed the vodka in one gulp. Draco held his glass in the air but didn’t drink. Blaise, who had not been allowed any vodka, watched him curiously.

Voldemort’s glass shattered on the floor as he clutched at his throat. He turned toward Draco, right hand extended, and managed a hissing, " _you_ ," before falling flat on his face.

Blaise laughed. Draco smirked. "That was entirely too easy."

"Potter will be _so_ disappointed when he finds out he won’t be the one to kill Voldemort after all." 

"Well," said Draco passing Blaise his wand. "Now that that’s taken care of I should like to return to the Manor. I’ve had enough of sleeping on other people’s couches." 

Draco missed the murderous glare Blaise shot him as he headed for the door. Blaise thought that maybe he would test some of Draco’s favorite Muggle hexes on him during the journey home.


End file.
